Consider Monday morning, for instance. Most of the other Rays were wearing their baseball gear by the time Scott arrived. As for Scott, he was wearing sunglasses, a floppy camouflage hat and those Chester A. Arthur mutton chops of his. As you might expect after two injury-filled seasons, Scott showed up head in hands.

Only, uh, it wasn't his head.

Scott bounced through the clubhouse carrying a large boar's head — the first one he killed with a spear, he would later explain. The eyes stared ahead blankly, and the tusks curled around the snout. Scott thought it would be a wonderful attachment to the side of his locker.

Soon, he would tell the story, again, about the clacking sound the boar made just before it threatened to charge. To emphasize, Scott thrust his lower jaw forward and clacked himself.